Mouth suddenly dry, I toyed with the edge of my tunic. I didn’tneedhis help. I could leave my clothing in place, take the vial, and apply it myself. The argument rolled to the tip of my tongue, where it promptly froze.
Because, skies, I wanted his hands on my skin again. And from the tension in his body as he awaited my response, and the way his eyes seemed to blaze in the lantern light, he wanted the same.
Slowly, I lifted the edges of my tunic to my ribs, revealing the discoloration on my side.
“Lay down with this side up,” he instructed, his deep tone shooting straight to my belly.
The mattress dipped as he kneeled fully on the bed, just at my back. I stared at the wall across from me, skin tingling in potent anticipation as I waited for his touch, for those calloused, strong fingers to land. When that touch came, it was at my ribs where the fabric was bunched. My breath stalled as he adjusted the tunic, pushing it up to reveal the top of the bruise, baring the bottom curve of my breast in the process.
The liquid was the same neutral temperature of the room when it landed on my skin in a neat line, infusing the air with bitter herbs. His hand followed that track, his pressure infinitely light, the incredible heat and work-roughened skin of his palm stealing every ounce of my attention as he spread the concoction.
His hand left—to cap the vial, I assumed. But then it settled on my hip, at the top of my trousers. “Those aren’t the only marks,” he stated softly.
“No,” I confirmed, breathless.
“Do you want my help with the rest of them?”
His question seemed to suck the air from the room, because the rest of them were, well, everywhere. Some on my thighs, a few on a calf, spots speckled all the way up my spine.
Harthon and I had never articulated what we were doing. Whatthiswas. The last time we’d spent time in bed, he’d left before morning came. But there, in that heated moment with my skin on fire, I didn’t care.
“Yes.”
Capable fingers slid to my front, undoing the lacing around my waist with easy efficiency. My entire body throbbed as he slid the fabric down past my hips. “On your stomach,” he said, voice rough.
I did as he said as the fabric left my ankles. There was a beat of anxiety at the exposure, but a warm, soft blanket landed on my legs and hips before I could harp on it. Then he removed the tunic from my shoulders, exposing the entirety of my back.
He took a moment to comb my hair off my shoulders before he began his ministrations, all of my focus on each sweep of his big hand. The heat in my chest began to swell, like it did the last time we were intimate, and it nearly exploded when he finished with my back and drew the blanket down, uncovering my hips, my thighs. Like he wasn’t a deadly, brutal man, his palm smoothed over every bruise with an almost painful tenderness, one that snaked up to the organ in my chest and squeezed.
That sensation shot down to the juncture of my thighs when he quietly instructed, “Turn onto your back.”
Hands trembling, I flipped over to see him kneeling above me, every chiseled line of his face severe with intensity as he unashamedly drank me in. The ship could have rammed a rock, and I wouldn’t have cared.
“You are a thing of dreams, Etarla.”
Skies.
Gaze drifting lower, I halted at the rigid, long bulge I found. My eyes remained there as he began tending to my bruised knee. And then my hand followed my vision, reaching out to grip him.
A pounding on the door had us both freezing before I made contact.
Stefano’s muffled voice came through the door. “Sorry to disrupt you, Princeps. But there’s a fight in the mess hall.”
I bit my lip and dropped my hand. Harthon’s eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them, the heated desire had been locked away. My skin felt cold as he retreated and covered me with the blanket.
“I’m on my way,” he replied. He capped the vial and placed it on the bedside table. Evidence of his arousal still pressed againsthis trousers. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’ll leave it here in case you need more.”
I nodded, shoving down my heavy disappointment. My body still tingled, eagerly anticipating something that wasn’t going to come.
Now I was the one to clear my throat. “Is it normal for sailors to fight with a Princeps on board?”
He gave a wry smile as he backed off the bed. “Fighting is one of their favorite activities, regardless of who’s with them. It should only take a few minutes to dispel.” At the door, he glanced back. “You have nothing to worry about. Get some rest.”
* * *
It was hard to fall asleep when you were aroused.
That’s what I learned as I lay awake, listening to the gentle wash of water brushing the ship’s hull. The commotion that came from the belly of the ship had only lasted a few minutes, just as Harthon promised. But now it’d been an hour and he still hadn’t returned, even though I was fairly certain these were his quarters.
